


Hook and Reel

by changdictator



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, warning: drug use, warning: i still haven't edited this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 10:52:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11622051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/changdictator/pseuds/changdictator
Summary: Money, like all addictions, takes a little getting used to. But the moment you do, it's over. (The Wolf of Wall Street AU)





	Hook and Reel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [illegiblesigns](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=illegiblesigns).



> Reposted from livejournal (for completion), and before that, reposted from tumblr.

“What would you give me?” Baekhyun asked, sitting centered on the kitchen floor, trying to put together the pieces. It was five in the morning. There was a bruising needle hole on his left arm. He was naked. His mouth tasted like rubber and lemon and the phone felt odd, too heavy and too light, in his hand.   
  
On the other end, Oh Sehun’s words were clear, not even the thinnest veil of static.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
One time in Macau, Baekhyun’s client had had too much to drink. He left Baekhyun at the table with a stack of poker cards and a vague promise of return, but since Baekhyun was bored to shit and held no interest in plastic coins, he lost the hand—a million and a half US, the dealer announced—to a blonde across the table.  
  
“All right, all yours, take it, bake it, fuck it, whatever,” Baekhyun said, pushing his chips just anywhere, one foot already jutting out into aisle traffic.  
  
“Sir, I’m afraid you’re five hundred thousand short.”  
  
Baekhyun wheeled himself back. “What?”  
  
“He’s saying you’re in what people call _debt_ ,” James Bond clarified, maybe the first thing he’s said since the minute he sat down.   
  
Baekhyun would be lying if he said he wasn't snagged on that wired gaze. “So if I’m playing along correctly, you’re saying this is where I throw my car keys on the table?”  
  
"I don’t think a car would cut it, frankly," Bond returned. His expression was unreadable, though Baekhyun could easily pick out a thin line of interest in his voice. He made a living on that kind of interest. Byun Baekhyun was twenty-one that year. He’d dropped out of high school and floated to Macau, where he spent years jumping from one old man’s bed to another. They taught him that interest was power was money, was fresh blood to a shark. 

  
In a flash he’s kicked off his shoes, loosened his tie and hoisted himself up on the table right on top of the chips. He leaned back until he was on his elbows, close enough to the blonde man to smell his cologne. It smelled like fresh blood. “There. Count me in too.”  
  
“Sir—“  
  
“You think you’re worth half a million dollars,” Bond narrated, monotonous.  
  
“Obviously, I’m at least twice that.” Baekhyun corrected, tracing a line down Bond’s nose with his ringed knuckle. Something changed in his face then. His smile flickered and froze.   
  
“I’ll have to ask you to get off the table, sir,” the dealer began ceremoniously.   
  
Blonde Bond stopped him. “Then we'll just have to buy the table.”   
  
“Sir, I apologize. I’m not authorised.”  
  
To this day Baekhyun remembers how Kris had reached down the side of his stool, pulled up a black suitcase, and there and then dumped maybe a hundred bundles of Benjamins right over his head. It was the most depraved and fucked up thing he had felt in ages, the bricks of money tumbling loosely down his sides, and it turned him on as all hell.  
  
“Maybe you ought to call up someone who’s authorised,” he said, and then, turning to Baekhyun with a slow wink, “Am I right?”  
  
Baekhyun leaned in. He whispered, “Oh, absolutely,” and that was how it began.   
  
  
  
  
  
A couple of days after, Baekhyun opened his mailbox. There was an envelope with a one-way ticket to Manhattan inside. “ _Let me know,”_  was scrawled on the flap. Instead of calling, Baekhyun let himself into Kris’s suite and laid spread-eagle and naked, save for a dollar bill covering his cock, on a beautiful king-sized bed. Kris kissed him everywhere, kissed a path down his belly, kissed him over the dollar, kissed him while he pounded his goddamned brains out.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He was a stock broker. Dealt penny stocks to the middle-class, working-class. They called him the wolf of Wall Street.  _Time_ magazine even wrote a trinket on him, which Baekhyun thought was adorable.  
  
On the plane Baekhyun pulled him into the washroom and pressed him against the wall, where he jerked him off so hard and efficient he could see the veins swelling in Kris’s neck, skin flushed soft red everywhere Baekhyun kissed him. Kris grabbed him by the hips to bend him over the counter, but Baekhyun pulled on his tie and pecked his wet gaping mouth. He prompted, “Yes, Kris?”  
  
“Baekhyun, Jesus fucking,” Kris had begun, so filled with want he couldn’t even finish his sentence.   
  
Baekhyun hushed him, carded his fingers through Kris’s hair and fisted it before pulling Kris down onto one knee. He fed his fingers into Kris’s mouth. Kris sucked them and unbuckled Baekhyun’s belt and ran his tongue over Baekhyun’s briefs. Baekhyun guided his mouth forward, fucked it thoroughly, and came on his face. He wiped the come off his cheek with an open palm and told Kris to lick it clean, and he did.   
  
Then Baekhyun pushed him down on the toilet. He let his trousers fall around his feet and fucked himself on Kris’s cock, rode it so slow and thorough Kris sobbed into his neck, grip so hard the bruises wouldn’t heal for days.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“This is Baekhyun,” Kris said when he led Baekhyun into his office. It stunk of sex, air freshener, vomit, and printer ink. “Baekhyun, this is Park Chanyeol.”  
  
Chanyeol looked at Baekhyun and back at Kris, “Give me a hint here, pal, am I supposed to assign him a desk or fuck him over one?”  
  
"Don’t be an ass, Chanyeol,” Kris began, laughing, about to sock Chanyeol on the shoulder. But Baekhyun had been loitering long enough. He walked to a kid on the phone in the maze of tables, shouting on about how innovative and cutting edge Johansson Tech is, how this will be the man on the other end’s golden lottery ticket, how if it were him, he wouldn’t miss this chance for the universe.  
  
He took the phone right from under the kid’s chin.  When he gave it back, he already made his first seven thousand bucks off a Richard from Kentucky. No one was laughing any more. There was interest in their eyes, hook and reel.   
  
Chanyeol clapped him on the shoulder. “Baekhyun, was it? Why don’t you take one of the offices?”  
  
So he took one of the offices. That same afternoon, Kris came in and locked the door after himself. He screwed Baekhyun hard over his brand new desk, with his trousers piled at his feet, new suit jacket hitched obscenely to expose his whole ass. He took him with one hand locked around his wrists, so that Baekhyun’s chest and cock rubbed painfully against the glossy varnish. Then he wrapped his other hand around Baekhyun's jaw, half-choking him, and bent him back and back. At that angle, each time Kris thrust into him, he’d filled him so completely Baekhyun was certain he’d burst. At that angle, Kris kissed him, open-mouthed, panting, sloppy.  
  
After Kris came in Baekhyun's ass, he grabbed Baekhyun’s cock and made him beg for it, made him thrust uselessly up against his palm. And of course Baekhyun begged. Begged hard, in a tiny, trembling, hysterical whimper of a voice.  
  
That same afternoon, hips still smarting and legs weak, Baekhyun sat in on a committee meeting. Kris occasionally asked for his input. Every time he did, the plastic beads buzzed a notch harder in Baekhyun's ass.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
As it turned out, Kris of course forgot to disclose that he was already married to his high school sweetheart. Nine years, going on the golden ten. She was a nice girl. Sweet smile. Kris took her to his pool parties, where Baekhyun introduced himself as a business associate. Everyone loved her, and so did Baekhyun.    
  
He sent her a bouquet of flowers for their anniversary. And when she opened the car door to find him giving Kris head in the back seat, he held her face in his hands and kissed her forehead, pressed Kris’s come on her brow. Then he smoothed his shirt and left with a friendly wave. “I’ll share,” Baekhyun yelled over his shoulder.    
  
The week he divorced, Kris came to him looking like he was ready to break.  
  
“I can’t remember if I’d ever loved her,” Kris confessed.  
  
“Oh,” Baekhyun breathed, wrapped his legs around Kris, smoothed his hands down the side of his face, and Kris’s palm stilled around his thighs. Something flicked across his face. Something broke and Baekhyun thought,  _got you_. After that Kris fucked him mercilessly against the window, a series of tight, fast thrusts from deep to deeper, until all Baekhyun could understand was Kris on top of him, in front of him, over him, under him, around him, inside him. His back smeared and squeaked with the condensation on the glass. His heels dug into Kris’s back.  
  
Mouth wide open, ready to shout, Baekhyun couldn’t utter a single sound, do a single thing other than just taking it, letting Kris overfill him.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
On Sundays, they attended church together.  
  
“God save us,” Kris sometimes muttered. Baekhyun learned that he used to be Christian. Maybe Catholic. Maybe he still was. It didn’t interest him, but he did take a minute to imagine it: teenaged Kris trying understand his sins under that giant statue of Jesus on the cross, trying to understand why some sins don’t come with atonement.  
  
Afterwards they drove off in Kris’s new Lamborghini, with the hood down, windows open. Baekhyun’s head was in Kris’s lap, his tongue circling up his shaft, and Baekhyun thought, maybe it’d never happened. Maybe Kris had never wanted to atone.   
  
  
  
  
  
In a year, Kris began making a million a week. He had so much money he was genuinely overwhelmed. Once he bought a bitch of a car and hired a guy to wreck it. Another time he came to the office with a dozen blue-chip whores, had them kneel in a straight line, and went down the line fucking all their mouths one by one and back again. He took Baekhyun to dinner by buying out a whole floor of Manhattan's Most Exclusive, because he needed to lick the spiked Beluga caviar out of Baekhyun’s ass in peace and quiet.   
  
They bought a yacht. Kris named it “The Milky White” after Baekyun’s thighs. Accordingly, the first thing he did aboard was get himself off between them.   
  
He proposed to Baekhyun in the middle of New York City. Afterwards every passerby on the block broke out in song and dance. Only it turned out that they weren’t strangers. Kris had paid them each ten thousand dollars.  
  
It was odd. It was fantastic. If anyone asked, Baekhyun would say that he was so phenomenally loaded that he was immortal.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
The first time Sehun called, Baekhyun was at the back of one of Chanyeol’s beer-bong parties where instead of beer there was cocaine dumped into an ugly mop bucket and a rash of the most gorgeous, blue-chip prostitutes you’d ever lay your eyes on. He had been sharing them with Chanyeol, a syringe full of heroin and a wet pussy, when Sehun’s voice travelled a million miles from his dingy government cubicle to a satellite idling space, and from that satellite to Baekhyun’s debauched weekend to tell him that, “Hello, I’m Agent Oh from the Bureau, and I’d like a—”  
  
“Oh, oh, Mr. Oh, wrong number,” Baekhyun had echoed, laughing before he shut his phone and tossed it in the swimming pool.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
In two years, Baekhyun began out-earning Kris by sixty-nine dollars a week. Maybe on purpose, maybe not. He too was gravely and profoundly confused by what to do with all the zeros on his check. The hookers were getting old, so they hired more and had floor-wide, drug-induced orgies to orchestra music.   
  
One day he gathered up all the young ones on the floor and taught them how to parachute coke like a proper rockstar. Shortly after he took all thirteen of them out to lunch at the Hilton and bought each of them a Porsche. Each of them had a different color, so that when they drove down the street they looked like the color rangers. It made Baekhyun laugh. Soon the new word around the office was that Mr. Byun was the greatest motherfucking thing since anal sex and everyone wanted to suck his dick.  
  
Sometimes, Baekhyun let them. Only when Kris was watching, of course, with a glass wall between them and the other end of a multi-million deal on the phone reeling him back. This way Baekhyun could flip him the bird and watch his mouth tense. Then the second he hung up the phone, Kris would wordlessly drag Baekhyun out of his office and throw him into a bathroom stall, not even bothering to shut the door behind him. He would fuck him inside out, utterly wreck him. It’d hurt like hell but it would always be the best sex Baekhyun ever had. People walked in sometimes. They watched and jerked themselves off to Baekhyun’s gaping hole. Baekhyun didn’t mind. After they finished, they’d pop a few angel dusts together and get on making shitloads of money.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
Time passed. Once Baekhyun opened the door to Kris’s car and there in the back seat was a boy between Kris’s legs. It was like deja deja vu, the expression on Kris’s face, the way he had his hand around the back of the boy’s head.  
  
That same day Baekhyun started letting the kids from the office suck him off, even when Kris wasn’t watching. Half a month later, he gathered up the newest ones and let them, those young boys fresh out of college, four or five or six of them, pumped full of testosterone and anger and greed and lust and pure slick want, take turns, so that when one of them was done the other would be ready for seconds. It lasted for hours and hours and Baekhyun was so fucked out that when they let go of him, he had no idea which way was up.   
  
One time turned into many, and many multiplied into a habit. At first he was guilty. Then he was angry. Eventually, he grew bored. Finally, six months after, he stopped feeling.   
  
But that was fine. Kris didn’t care, because sometimes Kris too came home in the middle of the night and smelled of women. Sometimes he fucked Baekhyun right after Baekhyun stumbled back from one of those gang bangs, had him bent nearly in half under him, and fucked their come right out of his wet, loose hole. It was awful. Baekhyun was half sure Kris was tearing him apart. But he did nothing, just took it like the champ Kris called him.   
  
Besides, the important part was that he was filthy rich. Money could buy everything. Sure, money couldn’t buy happiness, but having more always made him a little less miserable. That was why he’d let Kris dump all those bundles of money on top of him in Macau. That was happiness enough.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
When Oh Sehun from the FBI stopped by for a visit, Baekhyun took him into his cellar, where he pulled out a bottle of expensive red from 1827 and smashed it on the wall.  
  
“Do you know how much this is worth?” Baekhyun asked. “More than your annual wage. More than you’d earn in ten years. And I can do this. I can do this because I’m rich.”  
  
“Good for you,” Sehun said, in his worn out shirt and his ugly, mismatching suit, “I bet you’re happy.”  
  
“I’m fucking elated,” Baekhyun replied, pulling out another bottle and smashing that too.  
  
When Sehun left, Baekhyun rolled up a joint of marijuana in a couple of hundred dollar bills and smoked it until he choked. Kris found him there in the basement. He handed Baekhyun a proper cigar and Baekhyun told him to stick it up his ass. Kris just let him be.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
The thing with money, though, was that at some point all money started looking the same. A lot of money, a lot lot of money, a fucking shit lot of money, money to make a heap, money to make a mound, money to make a hill big enough to roll off of.  
  
It was Baekhyun’s idea for Kris to take him to France, so they could fuck in bathtubs full of cash, hundred pound bills whispering and crinkling under their knees. He’d let Kris ram him with his hands dangling off the edge, ashes shaking off the cigarette between his teeth each time Kris thrust too deep into him. Kris had them angled so that each time his thighs slapped into Baekhyun’s ass, the whole tub chattered a little on the tiles. Smoke unfurled in the rays of afternoon sun that fell from the opened windows. The sound of Baekhyun’s filthy hoarse whimpers and the tub’s endless rattling melded easily with the delicate music of the children and bicycles and leaves outside.  
  
On him was sweat and come and drool and lube and cold, hard, sticky cash. He rode Kris with handfuls of English currency balled up in his palms, stray bills shaking off his chest, falling around them. Then Kris threw him off, rolled him over, kissed a tight line down from the back of his neck to under his shoulder blade to the curl of his tail bone, and put his cock inside him. He gave it to him like a dog and Baekhyun could do nothing but come and come and come and come.  
  
When Kris lurched out of the tub to pour himself a drink, Baekhyun put his face down in the bills and cried.  
  
He cried because they were in Paris. They had fucked. They were in a quaint little place that should have changed something but didn’t. They’d run out of options. They’d tried their best. He’d thought this could fix them, this could rewind them back to that instant before Kris started coming home smelling of perfume, before Baekhyun fucked every stock boy in retribution. He cried because he was so damned wrong and so unsurprised. He cried and slumped there remembering that one time back in Macau, when Kris led him out the casino and sucked his toes one by one and screwed him in the parking lot, right in front of the security camera. Baekhyun should have known then that there was no such thing as relationship development when the relationship in question was built out of dollar bricks, when money had no real intrinsic value.  
  
He crawled out of the tub and lit the two million pounds inside on fire with a matchbook and a bottle of baby oil. On the next day they flew back to Manhattan.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“The FBI’s onto us,” Chanyeol said, pulling the two of them to the side after an executive meeting, “You two, me, the rest of the guys, this whole thing. Sehun said they'd exonerate me if I sold you two out. You hear that? He’s negotiating. He thinks he can bag us. We’re in deep shit, deep fucking shit.”  
  
“Oh whoa, whoa,” Kris echoed. Baekhyun looked at him and saw his pupils dilating and laughed, because Jesus Christ, Kris was high as fucking shit, and god damn it, it was only eight in the morning.  
  
Baekhyun laughed again, counting. Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. He closed his eyes and hummed. There were little green numbers running through his head, the money he could be making, the money he could be fucking in.   
  
“Baekhyun, fuck you, are you high?” Chanyeol whispered, urgent, “The IRS is coming down today and you’re fucking high? Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.”  
  
“I’m not high, nope sir, fuck  _you_ ,” Baekhyun wanted to say. For some reason the words came out weird. The next thing he knew the floor was smashing into the back of his head. The ceiling began fading away. All he could remember was the time Kris and he went out boating in the middle of a hurricane and got so blown out on acid that neither of them realized that the boat was sinking, that there were coral reefs slitting into their arms and chest and legs, that the blue streaks in their hallucinations were their neurons trying to register pain, that the waves were burying them, that they were dying, that _they could die_. He closed his eyes and remembered the taste of ocean and laughter while the first aid boy pumped water and seaweed out his mouth, the time Kris had made love to him and it’d felt like he was everywhere, on top of him, in front of him, over him, under him, around him, inside him.   
  
When he woke at the hospital there was no one there for him except a whore dressed in a nurse’s uniform. She asked if he wanted her to suck his dick because Chanyeol paid for her to. Baekhyun screamed at her and told her to get out, get out. For the longest time all he could remember was ocean, darkness five miles beneath the surface, dragging him deeper, filling his lungs.  
  
  
  
  
  
“I’m going to take a couple of days off,” Baekhyun texted Kris as soon as he walked out of the hospital. No one discharged him. He pulled out the IV and stumbled out in his gown. He tried calling a cab. It was funny how no one would pick him up because he wasn’t in a suit, because his hair wasn’t slicked back, because he wasn’t wearing his $400,000 dollar watch. He must have looked insane. He was probably insane.  
  
So he walked all the way home barefoot. It took seven hours. By the time he opened the front door, his soles were bleeding and numb. The path he took to the bedroom was outlined with red half-prints. Baekhyun tore off his dirty hospital gown and fell asleep before he hit the bed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
In his dream, atop the tallest skyscrapers of Manhattan, they laid themselves flat against the edge in their Canali suits and import silk ties, blood thick with enough morphine and Adderal and Zanax to sedate a city. This high up into the sky their shrieks echoed as they populated the air and the sound of their Black Cards cutting crooked lines of coke on the thin metal railing doubled back on itself. They wrapped up million-dollar cheques. Snow bombed themselves absolutely blazed past redemption. Kissed, stars on their tongue, laughing, howling, crying, tottering beside the greatest precipice of success, throwing multi-billion dollar deals with eyes screwed shut, so close to falling.   
  
In his dream, Baekhyun thought he knew the exact taste of death, of the cement smashing two hundred miles per hour into his face. There, he knew it better than he knew himself, than he’d ever know Kris.  
  
When he woke, Kris was in the bathroom. Baekhyun could see his reflection in the mirror. He had yellow circles under the eyes. His hands were jittering. He muttered to himself, ceaselessly and angrily. But somehow that person didn’t look like Kris. It wasn’t the same Kris who’d taken Baekhyun to Manhattan and gone wide-eyed when Baekhyun bagged his first client. This wasn’t Kris in their house. Kris wasn’t here. Kris hadn’t been here for a long, long time.  
  
Baekhyun closed his eyes and fell back asleep. When he woke again, in the middle of the night, Kris was sleeping beside him. Looking at him, touching his face for the first time in months felt like having his throat cut, like drowning in an ocean of air.  
  
A few minutes passed before Baekhyun stumbled into the kitchen, where he pulled out their stash of—he didn’t even know what it was any more. He simmered it in a spoon and sucked it into a syringe and tied the maid’s rubber cleaning glove around his arm and shot himself up, higher than all the buildings they’d ever climbed. Past the stars he had wished upon.  
  
And then he picked up the phone and called Sehun on his mobile.  
  
Baekhyun said, alone in the middle of the enormous kitchen, words banging off the walls, a hollow throb of pain in his guts, feeling so afraid, so tired, so sorry, sorry, god, so sorry, “If I gave you Kris Wu, if I gave him to you, what would you give me?”


End file.
